One Day at a Time
by Cadsuane
Summary: My collection of fills for the Alistair Weekly Challenge on the BSN. Weekly prompts #7, #8 & #9 up.
1. WP 1: Escape

So we've begun a weekly prompt for Alistair over on the BSN. These are my fills for the prompts.

* * *

Prompt 1: "There were times Alistair almost wished he'd never left the Chantry."

* * *

There were days when Alistair longed to be back in the Chantry.

Alistair sighed and shifted, but was careful to keep himself between the cell door and the unconscious woman curled at his side. Waking up sprawled out on the cold floor of a cell had been bad enough. It was worse seeing Lya in the same position. So he'd carried her over to the back of the cell, and placed himself in a position to try and protect her, as little good as it probably was.

Speaking of which, he hoped she would wake up soon. It was worrisome that she hadn't yet, and he hadn't been able to rouse her. He had checked her for injuries, and she was a little banged up, but nothing that seemed life-threatening. He wished Wynne were there, or even Morrigan, to check on her and make sure.

His fingers drifted down to brush the knot on Lya's skull, just above her ear. It was the reason she still slept, and he couldn't do anything about it. All he could do now was wait and pray. And hope that help came before Loghain did.

He leaned his head back against the wall, his thoughts turning inward.

A _templar_ would never have snuck into an arl's estate to rescue a queen.

A _templar_ would never have surrendered in order to let said queen escape.

A _templar_ would never have ended up locked in a cell in Fort Drakon.

There was a slight movement as Lya shifted and then she groaned. He reacted instantly, rolling onto his knees to help her sit up. "Easy," he murmured, settling her against the wall. "How do you feel?"

Lya blinked at him, shaking her head slightly to clear it. She didn't answer him immediately, instead looking down, flexing and testing limbs and joints. Touching the bump on her head, she winced.

"All right," she replied. "Nothing's broken, except maybe my pride. Where are we?"

"Fort Drakon."

"Oh, yay," she said dryly. "I've always wanted to visit. Hmmm." She hummed thoughtfully, looking around. Spying the lone guard, her eyes narrowed in thought. Then her gaze landed on the rather substantial chest next to him.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"If you think it's our armor and weapons, then yes. I heard a couple guards lusting after it earlier."

She thought a moment longer, and Alistair could see a plan forming behind those clear, green eyes and he knew that whatever she came up with was almost certainly going to be wild, reckless and probably take years off his life. Like fighting a high dragon for _practice_.

Getting to her feet, she turned and grinned at him, excitement brightening her features. "What do you say we get out of here?"

He answered her grin in return. That expression was impossible to resist. This was going to be wild, reckless, terrifying and _awesome_.

And as she walked towards the bars of the cell, calling to the guard, he thought, yes, there were definitely days he wished he'd never left the Chantry.

Today? Not one of those days.


	2. WP 2: Choice

Prompt 2: "Everyone has a dark(er) side."

* * *

When Kalea didn't come to his tent last night, Alistair didn't think anything of it. It had been a long day—Maker, a long week—and coupled with the surprise darkspawn ambush late in the day, they were all exhausted. After getting healing from Wynne, Alistair had barely been able to stay awake through supper, and had crawled into his tent, falling asleep mere seconds after he laid his head down.

So, when he woke up and the elven mage wasn't by his side, he assumed that she had felt the same way he did and had slept in her own tent that night. It wasn't the first time that had happened and undoubtedly wouldn't be the last. He thought that until he looked across the camp and saw her emerging from Zevran's tent.

For one, frozen moment he just stared, not believing what he was seeing. There had to be some rational, logical explanation and his mind starting frantically searching for one. And then Zevran came out behind her. The assassin dipped his head to brush her cheek with his lips at the same time his hand tucked her loose hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering over and playing with the delicately pointed tip.

His world shattered. Neither of them had seen him yet and he turned away, hurriedly busying himself with striking his tent, needing something to do that would keep him away from them while he tried to process this sudden and disturbing turn of events.

He knew she'd had other lovers before him—that she was far more sexually experienced than he, and that she liked to flirt. But he had never thought it would result in something like _this_. How could she do this to him? To them? Didn't she know how he felt about her? Maker's breath, he'd told her that he loved her! Did that mean nothing to her?

It was then that he realized that he had assumed she felt the same way. Now that he thought about it, he realized that she'd never said it to him. Habit kept his hands moving as he rolled the canvas and tent poles into a neat bundle, his mind no longer on the task at all, but wholly consumed with this terrible realization.

She had never told him that she loved him. Liked him? Yes. Wanted him? Yes. But love? No, that had never crossed her lips. Something hot and dark bloomed in his chest, spreading out like a sickness. He couldn't confront her about it right now. He knew himself well enough to know he wouldn't be able to string a coherent sentence together and that would just make him look like an idiot. So he would wait, give himself time to watch and decide exactly what he was going to do.

He said nothing to either of them, and no one said anything to him, though he caught a few curious glances from Leliana and Wynne. Instead, he watched, watched as the two of them shared little touches and looks, moments of affection that she should have been sharing with _him_.

His temper became short, his normal joviality fleeing in the wake of his anger. The darkness in him turned into something ugly. When Kalea came to him a few nights later, leaning down to kiss him, he pushed her away abruptly, standing and saying he was tired and was going to bed. There was a flash of hurt in her wide, deep brown eyes, but he ignored it. He wasn't the one who had chosen this, and if it hurt her, well, _good_!

With Zevran, he didn't even bother hiding how he felt. He stopped talking to the rogue altogether, glaring at the elf with undisguised hostility and hate. For his part, Zevran understood the unspoken message and kept as far from Alistair as possible.

It came to a head during a fight with another group of darkspawn. Alistair was used to serving as a shield for the others, taking strikes meant for others, his armor and shield absorbing blows that would have felled them. And he had done it for all of them. Certainly for Kalea, Wynne and Leliana, but also for Morrigan, Sten and Zevran.

Alistair saw the attack before it came, saw the shriek heading for Zevran as the elf wove and sliced through the monsters. With the noise all around them, people yelling and shouting, the darkspawn screaming and bellowing, no warning he called could have been heard. But he had time to get there, place himself between the assassin's unprotected back and the shriek. He could run in once more, putting himself in the path of danger and saving Zevran from the attack.

He didn't.

Instead, he turned back to the hurlock he was fighting, not responding as he heard Zevran cry out. There were immediate pulls of magic as he felt both Kalea and Wynne cast their healing spells, a growl from Canth as the mabari launched himself at the shriek so that Zevran could fall back, away from the danger.

It wasn't until the battle was over, the last of the darkspawn dead on the ground, that he looked over. Wynne was attending to injuries the others had received. Kalea was kneeling on the ground next to Zevran. The assassin was sitting up, but he was pale and covered in blood, his armor rent in several places. Zevran looked over Kalea's shoulder at him, and in that gaze, Alistair saw that Zevran _knew_ what had happened.

He turned away, his face not betraying the surge of satisfaction at seeing his foe so beaten.

"Alistair? Can we talk?"

Kalea's tentative question pulled him back into awareness. His first impulse was to say no, to send her away. His mood, already black, had turned even darker in the days since he let Zevran be injured. As much as it satisfied that primal urge to hurt the other man, it nagged at him, his conscience telling him it was wrong and that he damn well knew it. He'd been unable to sleep well, wrestling with himself.

"Sure. What do you want to talk about?" he said coldly.

She shook her head and looked around the camp. "Not here. I want to talk alone. Walk with me. Please?"

He stood and strode from the camp into the surrounding woods, forcing her to hurry to keep up with his long strides. At one point, she tried to take his hand in hers, but he snatched it away.

Finally coming to clearing, far away from the camp and any listening ear, he turned on her. "All right. We're alone. Talk."

Frowning, Kalea asked, "What is wrong with you?"

Was she really going to play dumb here? "Nothing's wrong with me," he replied shortly.

"Alistair, something is obviously wrong. You're not yourself."

"I'm not? Well, maybe you don't know me as well as you think."

That took her aback, and she looked startled. "Alistair, please." She stepped closer to him, almost touching, and raised her hand to his cheek. He turned his head to the side. "See?" she cried. "That! That's what I mean. You don't talk to me anymore, or touch me. You avoid me. What's going on?"

It was too much and he couldn't contain it anymore. "How dare you? How dare you come to me and ask me what's wrong? I don't talk to you anymore? I don't touch you? Well, why would I want to after you started sleeping with that…that assassin?" he snarled at her.

Her eyes flew open wide and he reached up and grabbed the wrist that she still held raised, crushing it in his grip, and pulled her into him, his other arm wrapping around her like a band of steel.

"What do you think I am?" he hissed. "Am I supposed to watch you touch him, kiss him and say nothing? Watch you go to his tent and listen to _him_ make you cry out? Am I just supposed to sit and do nothing and then just take you back when you feel like it?"

"Alistair, wait, no—"

"Shut up!" he snarled. "I'm a man, Kalea, only a man and I can only take so much! And this…_this_ is too much!"

It was hard being near her and being this angry. Her silky red hair shimmered in the late afternoon light, the clean scent of it making him want to bury his face in it. Her dark eyes were large with surprise, like bottomless depths that he could fall into and be happy to never emerge from.

"Don't you know how I feel about you?" he asked hoarsely. "I _love_ you, Kalea. I would do anything for you—I would die for you—but I can't…I can't do this. I can't sit and watch you go to another. It's killing me, seeing you with him. I don't want to lose you, but you have to choose: me or him. I can live with whatever you decide, but I can't live with things the way they are now."

For a long moment she didn't say anything and he felt his heart sink. Alistair had hoped that he might get through to her, but apparently it hadn't been enough.

"You…love me." The words were a statement, but her tone was doubtful, questioning.

"Yes."

"When…when you say that, Alistair, what do you mean?"

He blinked at her. "What do I mean? What do you think I mean? I _love_ you. I want to be with you—and only you—for the rest of my life. I want to kiss you and love you and make you smile and laugh. I want to wake up next to you every morning." He stopped and took a deep breath. "And I want…I want you to want to same thing with me. I want—wait, no, why are you crying?"

Kalea buried her face in his chest, shoulders shaking. He let go of her wrist, dropping his hand to her head, cradling it.

"In the tower," she began, "lots of boys told me they loved me. But it never really meant anything. Love was just something you said when you wanted to fumble underneath someone else's robes, in hidden corners and closets. What you described…that doesn't happen for us. It's a story, a fantasy you only find in books. So when you said it, I thought that's what you meant—that you just wanted my body, that you meant what everyone else meant.

"I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't realize what this—what _I_—meant to you."

She hadn't known what he meant? He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath to steady himself, and inside of him, that darkness let go a little bit. The feel of her fingertips on his cheek made him open his eyes.

"I think…I think I love you, too, Alistair." She bit her lower lip and worried at it. "I'll have to tell, Zevran. I hope he'll understand." She drew back. "Let me go do that and then you and I can…make this up to you."

Alistair was going to say he didn't care whether or not Zevran understood, but he realized how needless it was. He had won.

The ugliness drew back a bit further as he followed her back to camp, but he knew it wasn't gone. Maybe it never would be. Until it had happened, he hadn't been aware that he could feel that way, that his hate for Loghain could be eclipsed by something far deeper, far more primal.

What he had felt when he saw her with another man…. No, that would never really go away. It would always be with him, waiting, in case anyone ever tried to take her from him again.


	3. WP 3: Addict

A little background. The first part of this was inspired by SilentDreamer (aka TotoroTori) asking "What if Alistair didn't become a Warden?" I wrote a short one-shot about that and it sat for awhile. Then, when this week's prompt for the Alistair Weekly Challenge came up, I took it and expanded it to fill the prompt.

Prompt 3: "Lyrium is one hell of a drug."

* * *

He caught sight of them just as they crossed the bridge, coming up the ramp into the main part of the fortress.

It was obvious they weren't part of any of the forces already gathered and waiting to face the darkspawn horde. Word had been filtering around the camp that Warden-Commander Duncan had found two recruits and they would be arriving soon. And since Commander Duncan had just passed by a few minutes before, and in the company of a rather large mabari, Alistair could only assume these were the recruits.

He shifted minutely, the plates of his well-oiled armor making little sound. For once, he was glad of the oppressive templar helm, as it allowed him to study them without being observed.

His attention was drawn to the man first, a mage—which surprised Alistair slightly. Knight-Commander Greagoir hadn't been keen on letting the mages already at Ostagar come in the first place. That he would allow one to be recruited into the Grey Wardens was very curious, to say the least.

There was something familiar about the mage, and Alistair frowned, trying to place him. The dark blond hair caught up in a queue, the neatly trimmed goatee, and the dark eyes that observed everything as they looked around…. That was it! Daylen Amell, Irving's prize pupil. This made things even more interesting. Why would the First Enchanter, who many thought was grooming Daylen to eventually take his position, let his apprentice become a Grey Warden? Daylen also hadn't been a fully Harrowed mage when Alistair left the tower. A lot must have happened in the last few weeks.

Daylen's eyes took in Alistair and his fellow templar, Ser Gerard, and then moved past them to the circle of mages working behind them. His lips twisted in disgust and Alistair stiffened reflexively. Daylen had been one of those mages who never liked the templars, and wasn't shy about letting them know it.

Alistair gritted his teeth against the unfairness of it. It wasn't like he _wanted_ to be templar. He'd been just as trapped as the mages in the tower, only now Daylen had found a way out. Jealousy flared through him before he tamped it back down. Railing against his fate hadn't done him any good at age ten and it didn't do him any good now. What was done was done.

At least he had this right now. He'd jumped at the chance to come to Ostagar when Greagoir had asked for volunteers to accompany the mages. He was still on guard duty, still watching the mages and it was still just as boring, but he was outside, seeing new places, and with any luck, would get to be involved in the battle. The thought of using his skills for more than hunting apostates and maleficar or ending the lives of the poor wretches who failed their Harrowing pleased him.

The two recruits were walking in his direction, and Alistair got a good look at the second one—a woman dressed in scale armor, her long dark hair caught up high on her head to keep it out of her face. She was pretty, he could tell that much. Very pretty, he realized as they got closer.

Daylen tipped his head down, murmuring something in her ear. She frowned and shook her head, gesturing toward them. The mage sighed, rolled his eyes, and fell a pace behind her. She continued walking towards them until she stood before Ser Gerard and him. This close, he could tell her eyes were a clear, bright blue, much like the sky on a crisp fall day.

She tipped her head to the side, looking at the mages behind them curiously while Daylen studiously avoided looking at them. The woman opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, Ser Gerard interrupted her.

"The mages must not be interrupted. Their spirits are in the Fade."

Alistair wanted to curse. The first pretty girl to actually walk up and want to talk to them in Maker knew how long and Gerard was being a right git before she could put two words together. He glared at his brother templar, though the gesture was useless as he still had his helmet on.

"I'm sorry," he said, apologizing for Gerard. "But they really shouldn't be disturbed right now."

"What are they doing in the Fade?"

"Perhaps they're searching for darkspawn."

Her eyes widened. "Can they do that?"

"I don't know," he replied, letting a little bit of a grin creep into his voice. "We're not really supposed to ask about those sorts of things."

"I see." Her voice was quiet, cultured. Alistair realized she must either come from money or nobility to speak as she did, yet still be trained as a warrior. Alistair suppressed another surge of jealousy at the thought of having the freedom to choose your own path like that, of a path that _could_ have been his, but was denied to him long ago.

"Ser Alistair." Gerard's tone was icy and clipped. "Any more conversation and the mages could be disturbed.

Alistair did sigh then. "I'm sorry, my lady, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he said quietly, but kindly. There was no need for Gerard to be an ass to someone who'd been nothing but perfectly pleasant to them.

"It's all right. I understand. Thank you for answering my questions, Ser Alistair. Perhaps we'll see each other in the battle."

"I look forward to it. Good luck, my lady. Maker be with you both."

She nodded and stepped back up to Daylen's side, the two of them walking further into the camp and heading for the Warden-Commander's fire.

What he wouldn't give to join them, to be a Grey Warden like they were going to be. But that was an impossible dream. Even if he didn't have his lyrium addiction to contend with, there was no way the Chantry or the grand cleric would ever let him go.

He shifted again, straightening and trying to at least _look_ the part of a dutiful templar. He would simply do his duty and make the best of it. Though the odds were ridiculously small, maybe he would see her in the battle tomorrow. The thought made him smile.

* * *

The battle had _not_ gone as any of those gathered at Ostagar had expected.

Alistair stumbled blindly forward, putting one foot in front of the other through a sheer effort of will. His shield had been dropped somewhere in his mad flight from the slaughter the battlefield had become. His sword was clenched grimly in one blood covered gauntlet while his other hand pressed against the wound at his hip, trying to apply pressure even as more of his blood leaked out to soak the purple fabric of his templar skirt.

The world was growing hazy around him—his vision kept swimming in and out of focus. Pain and hunger were taking their toll on his exhausted body. He'd had a pack at one point, filled with food and bandages, but it hadn't been with him during the fight and there had been no chance of going back for it once the killing began.

As bad as that was, he had another, far more pressing concern.

He was out of lyrium.

That had also been in his pack—the fine, powdery substance he had to take every day lest he go mad. Well, he didn't have his lyrium and probably wouldn't have his sanity for much longer. He had to get somewhere, find some shelter, before he succumbed completely to the delirium. Weak as he was, he might not survive the withdrawal, but he wouldn't have any chance at all if didn't find a little safety, from both the darkspawn and the elements.

Almost like a prayer answered from the Maker, he came around a bend in the road, and there, set a little way back, was a small cottage. He hastened forward, hope lending his tortured limbs a brief spurt of energy.

Alistair nearly fell against the door, pounding weakly, hoping whoever was inside could help him. There was no answer, so he pounded again. And again, no answer. Dimly, he was aware that whoever owned the cottage was gone, either fled from the darkspawn, on some errand or dead. He groped weakly for the latch, and almost cried when he found it wasn't locked and the door swung open.

Without the door to support him, he fell across the threshold, landing on his hands and knees on the worn floorboards, his sword clattering to the ground beside him. He crawled forward, managed to get up on his knees and shut the door, and then collapsed against it. His breath came in ragged pants as he sat slumped there.

Armor. He had to get his armor off. He was sweating, almost feverish, and the armor was becoming unbearable to have on now that he'd stopped moving. But his hands were shaking so badly that it took far too long to get it off. By the time he managed the last buckle and shed the breastplate and chain skirt, he was weeping.

He tried desperately to gather himself. One deep breath, then another, and another. Slightly more clear-headed, he crawled to a chair and pulled himself up, swaying unsteadily. Water. Food. Bandages.

Again, the Maker must have been watching out for him. A bucket by the hearth was half full of water—warm, not fresh in the slightest, but it slaked his thirst. A search of the cupboards yielded some dried meat, some wax sealed jars of preserves and some cheese—which was perfectly edible after he sliced away the layer of mold that covered it. Bandages came in the form of an old sheet that he tore into strips. Wadding one strip, he pressed it to his wound and managed to secure it with other strips.

He was sweating and shaking by the time he finished. He had enough awareness to know he was going to collapse very, very soon. Stumbling, he managed to make it to the other room in the cottage that held a single bed. He collapsed upon it. If he was going to die, it could be at least somewhere soft.

* * *

He would never remember much about the next few days, only vague snatches. He remembered seeing things that weren't there, of screaming awake from nightmares he couldn't remember. He remembered raving—begging and babbling to people who weren't there to please, _please_ just give him some lyrium. He would do anything, just please make the pain go away.

When Alistair heard sounds at the door, he almost hoped it was the darkspawn come to finish him. Maker knew he couldn't last much longer. He heard the door creak open and the sound of cautious footsteps entering the cottage. The muted sound of voices came to him as the people—people, not monsters, unless they were the monsters of his own mind made real—wondering at the armor and sword.

Oh, right, those were his, left one the floor where he'd dropped them a lifetime ago.

There was a growl, then a bark, and the sound of footsteps coming closer.

"Hafter, what are—Daylen! Come here!"

Running. Someone falling to their knees beside the bed. A cool hand on his brow. He opened his eyes, the motion an agony, and all he could see was a pair of bright, blue eyes. Where did he know those from?

The world began to fade away again, the fire and need in his blood dragging him back down. He tried to listen, to concentrate on what was being said, but it was too much effort and he caught only snatches.

"Who is…did he get here…"

"Alistair, the…in Ostagar before…"

"…wrong with…"

"Lyrium…addicted, if they don't…"

"Can we help? Will he…"

"…less than a year, might be fine if…"

"We have to…can't leave him…"

The voices faded away, the pain and blackness swallowing him up completely.

* * *

When he came to again, someone was supporting his head, a cup of cool water being held to his lips. He drank greedily—he was so thirsty—and his head was lowered back down. This happened several times, someone holding him, forcing him to drink water or broth, a soft voice murmuring encouragement. He cried, trying to voice his gratitude, and the voice just hushed him, and told him to sleep.

He finally woke completely from what he realized, as his eyes blinked open, was a natural sleep. The overwhelming need, the craving for lyrium was gone, or at least so muted as to just as well not exist. He was tired and achy, but nothing worse than when he was just recovering from being ill.

Alistair struggled into a sitting position and took stock of himself. He was clean, the wound at his hip completely healed, a scar the only sign that it had ever been. He was also stark naked and a hot flush heated his face.

"Ah, I see you're awake."

He jerked toward to door. A woman was standing there, looking at him, a slight smile on her face. She walked into the room and he hastily pulled the sheet up and over his chest. There was something familiar about her and he tried to place her.

She sat on the edge of the narrow bed, feeling his forehead and his pulse, looking intently into his eyes.

"Do I know you?" he blurted.

She smiled. "We met briefly at Ostagar," she said.

That was it. She was one of the two Grey Warden recruits.

"I'm Elissa," she continued. "We're on our way to Lothering. We were looking for a place to spend the night and we found this house—and you. You were in really bad shape and we couldn't leave you to die, so…."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. If you're up to it, I'd like to get you out of this bed and have you tell us what happened."

Up to it or not, he wasn't going to remain an invalid. Elissa had scrounged up some of the former inhabitant's clothes, and though they were a tight fit, they met his needs. Elissa helped him into the other room where the rest of her group was—her mabari, Hafter, the other Grey Warden, Daylen, and an apostate by the name of Morrigan.

In between eating mouthfuls of stew, he told them what happened. How the darkspawn had flanked the mages, attacking them before they could even join the battle. How he and his brothers had stayed behind to give the mages time to escape. He told them how he had tried to follow once everyone around him had been cut down, but his injuries, and then the lyrium withdrawal had hampered him. He wasn't even sure how he managed to flee from the battlefield.

In return, the Grey Wardens told him what they knew. That Teyrn Loghain had betrayed them, and the king and all the rest of the Wardens were dead. They had treaties and were gong to use them.

"One is for the Circle Tower. We could go there first and see you home," Elissa offered.

"No!" The outburst startled them all. "N-No, I…." He licked his lips. "If I go back, I'll have to start taking lyrium again, and I…I don't want to. Please. Don't take me back."

Alistair could hear the pleading in his voice and it made part of him sick, to beg like that. But he didn't want to be addicted again. He'd lived first hand the consequences of what having that addiction meant and he was terrified of having it again.

Daylen tilted his head, considering him. "He's probably assumed dead. No one would ever know unless we go around telling people."

Morrigan scoffed, but Elissa just nodded. "I have no problems with that. We should still probably go to the Circle Tower first, but we can take him with us to Lothering."

"What about Arl Eamon?" The question was out before he could stop himself and he cursed himself for opening his mouth.

"Arl Eamon?" Elissa asked.

"He'll help you," Alistair said. "He's a good man, and from what I heard at camp, he still has his whole army. He'll help you against Loghain."

"And how do you know this Arl Eamon well enough to say that?" Daylen asked.

"Aside from the fact that he's Cailan's uncle…he raised me. At least until he sent me to the Chantry."

He could sense the shock from all of them. Elissa frowned and rubbed her forehead.

"I've never met Eamon myself," she mused. "If he raised you, Alistair, it might be helpful to have you there. And if you survived Ostagar, then you can fight. Would you come with us? We need all the help we can get."

Go with them…. He licked his lips. There was danger in going to Redcliffe, not the least of which was the Chantry. He'd taken his vows and he was pretty sure templars weren't allowed to go rogue. He didn't want to be anywhere where there was the chance he could be dragged back into the order and his addiction. And there were…other considerations.

"If it helps," Daylen drawled, "we won't let the big, bad templars get you. Not that I like templars, but Elissa's right. You'd be useful. Help us and we'll help you. Unless…."

Daylen grinned evilly. "Unless you want us to tell the templars where you are. And then they can take you back to the tower and all that lovely lyrium."

Alistair's hands curled into fists and a shudder went through him at the thought. "I'll go," he said hoarsely. "Whatever you want. Just don't make me go back."

"Excellent!" Elissa said. "We'll spend the night here and be on our way tomorrow."

She chattered on about needing more supplies and getting him new armor, but Alistair wasn't paying attention. He was wondering if he'd just traded in one prison for another.

_Well_, he thought ruefully, _at least this one wouldn't come at the cost of his sanity. Hopefully._


	4. GP 1: Perfect

So, there are unofficial guests prompts for the AWC. I'm treating these are micro-prompts, to be filled in about 1,000 or less.

* * *

Guest prompt #1: "In a perfect world, we would never have met."

* * *

**Perfect**

He is dying.

On top of Fort Drakon, the irony of his situation does not escape him. After everything they've done, that he should fall now, so close to the end, nearly undoes him. A few seconds or a couple of feet are all that separates him from a healthy, living man and the grievously wounded one bleeding out on cold stone. One small difference and maybe the archdemon's claws would've missed him, wouldn't have torn his armor away and parted his flesh.

He is dying.

Alistair struggles to block out the pain, to follow the sound of her voice rising above the others and telling them to get back. He can't see her, but he's watched her for so long that he doesn't need to. In his mind, he can see her running across the broken stone to their foe, sword clenched in her fist, fire in her eye as she puts an end to their foe. Then there is light so bright that he thinks he's been blinded even though his eyes were closed. An explosion follows, the sound deafening him, and he feels the shockwaves travel through both the stone beneath him and the air around him. It's _over_—he feels it in every fiber of his being, but he can't go yet. He has to know that she's safe, that he's managed to save her.

He is dying.

She's by his side now. When did she get there? He opens his eyes—slowly, oh so slowly—to see her kneeling, her hands pressed to his wounds, trying desperately to stem the flow of his blood.

"No," she says. "No, no, no, no, no." She presses harder and Alistair can't feel it. Maker, he wants to feel it. Wants to feel her hands on him once more, but he can't feel much anymore.

She twists, dark hair flying, as she screams over her shoulder for Wynne. He can't feel his hand, but he manages to lift it anyway, just grazing her leg, and her head snaps back to look at him.

He is dying.

She's crying now, tears running down her face from those huge green eyes. He hates when she cries, hates seeing her in pain, and it's worse when he's the cause. It hurts so much now because he wants to make it better and he can't. Her hands, free of their gauntlets and covered in his blood, grasp his hand and he's surprised that his gauntlet is also missing, but grateful because now he can _feel_ her.

He is dying.

It's cold now and Alistair is tired, more tired than he's ever been in his life. There is a faint pull as he feels Wynne's magic and he wants to laugh. It all seems so silly. Her lips are moving, but he can't hear her. He thinks he might see his name, but his vision is fading.

All he wants is to tell her it's okay, but he can't speak. Even if he had the energy, he can't find the breath. He can't remember if he ever told her how much he loved her, and he wants to tell her now. He thinks he might have loved her since the moment they first met, and that causes an odd thought to drift through his mind.

_"...but when will it be perfect? If thing were, we wouldn't even have met."_

He'd said that to her once. If the world was perfect, they never would have met. But they did meet and his life hasn't been the same. He's said he lived to defeat the Blight, but that's not true. He's lived for her. She is what's made all of this worth it, and he wouldn't change a single moment of it. Being with her is the greatest gift he could have ever asked for.

Without her, the world—his world—would have been incomplete. It would have been a pale and empty thing. But he did meet her. And no matter what happens to him, she will live.

And the world?

_It's perfect_.


	5. GP 2: Duty and Honor

Guest prompt #2: For Duty and Honor

* * *

**Duty and Honor**

The two men stood at a window in Highever Castle, looking down at the garden. Three children played among the greenery, watched over by two dark-haired women. The oldest child, a sturdy boy of over ten, held a wooden sword and was crossing it in slow forms with the taller of the two women, who held a similar sword. The other two children, another boy and a girl, perhaps a few years younger than the first child, chased each other in a game of tag, shrieking in delight.

"You're asking a lot, Alistair," said Fergus, turning away from the scene below them to look at his brother-in-law.

"I know." Alistair kept his eyes on the children below, a longing look in his expression as he watched his nephews and niece playing.

"Does Lya know about this?"

"It's been mentioned, but…no, we haven't really talked about it."

"I see."

Both men fell silent once for a time until Fergus spoke again. "Why now? I mean, after all this time, why bring this up now?"

Alistair frowned, his brows pulling together and forming deep lines in his forehead. "She's begun talking about divorce." He nodded at Fergus's gasp. "We've argued about it on and off for years. It's the one issue that never goes away. You know your sister, Fergus. You know what she's like. She's bound and determined to do what's 'right,' to do what she sees as her duty."

"Even so, to bring up divorce…."

"She thinks that if she steps aside, it'll make it easier on me to find someone to replace her."

"Is that true?"

Alistair shot Fergus a withering look. "I should hope you know me better than that. She's not going anywhere, but that doesn't stop her from worrying about the issue of an heir. And it's not as if I can say she's completely wrong. We hear about it at every Landsmeet."

"And is there truly no chance of an heir for the two of you?"

"No," Alistair said quietly. "There isn't. And the odds of me having an heir with someone else are slim at best if I was even willing to make the attempt. Which I'm not." He grimaced. "We had a spectacular argument over that almost a decade ago. She tried to convince me to bed someone in the hopes that I might get an heir that way. That discussion ended…poorly."

Fergus gave a low whistle. "I can imagine." He nodded. "So you're stuck. You can't have a child with Lya, you won't put her aside and you won't take a lover. That doesn't leave you with very many options."

"No, it doesn't. You can't tell that to the Bannorn, though. At every gathering, it seems like half the nobles somehow manage to introduce me to every single, young female relative they've got. And I'm sick of it.

"I need an heir. That much is beyond question. I can't risk everything descending into a civil war after my death because I left this matter unresolved."

"So you want one of my children."

"I don't…." Alistair bowed his head. "I don't want one of your children, Fergus. I love them like they're mine own, and I have absolutely no desire to take any of your children away. It wouldn't be fair to any of us. But I need an heir, and I'd rather have it be from my family even if they're not of my blood."

Fergus turned back to the window, watching his family. "How would this work?"

"I was thinking that whomever I name should start by spending the summers with us. You should all do it at first, I think, if Highever can afford your absence. Making sure that their education is augmented so that they learn what they need to. Then start introducing them to the Landsmeets.

"Like I said, I don't want to take your children from you, but as they get older, they'll have to spend more time in Denerim. You and Dara will be parted from one of your children long before you should be. I'm sorry."

For a long, long time, Fergus was silent, gazing through the window as he thought. Finally, "This is quite the honor you do my family."

Alistair smiled faintly. "It's not an honor, we both know that. So you'll accept?"

"Yes, I will, though we'll both need to talk to our wives."

"That we will. I'm hoping Lya will be relieved enough not to hit me for deciding this without her." He gestured to the window. "Any thoughts as to who it'll be?"

"Brannon." Fergus answered without any hesitation and Alistair raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"No more thought than that?"

"I have thought about it. Nathaniel…. Nathaniel's too much like me. He's a Cousland through and through—he'll never be happy away from Highever. And Eirian might be a good choice, but she's too young yet, only six. And I think she's too sweet. The politics of ruling would take that from her.

"But Brannon? He's smart, steady—has a good head on his shoulders and he's honest. I think the change will be easiest for him to handle, and he seems to enjoy doing a good job and helping others. He'll make a good king."

"Do you think he'll be willing?"

"What boy wouldn't want to be a king?" Fergus smiled.

"A smart one."

Fergus threw his head back and laughed. "Aye, and Brannon is a smart one. Yes, Alistair, he'll be willing. He's a Cousland and Couslands do their duty. Always have, always will."

He stepped away from the window and clasped Alistair on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's go down and join our family. There'll be time for talk later."

Alistair nodded and turned, following Fergus down to the garden. The children ran over as they walked out into the sunshine. And as Alistair slid his arms around his wife, he was profoundly thankful that doing what he had to didn't mean losing everything he held dear.


	6. WP 4: Equilibrium

Prompt #4: Alistair and Duncan meet in the Fade.

* * *

The gray stone and timber walls surrounding him seemed very familiar. Alistair frowned in befuddlement. The Warden compound in Denerim? How did he get back here? The last thing he remembered was making camp inside the ruined temple in the mountains above Haven. He looked around the strangely empty corridors. This didn't make any sense.

He turned and walked down the hallway. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he wasn't going to get any answers just standing around. Passing a window, he stopped and looked out into the tan, overcast sky and the dark blot of the Black City far above him.

The Fade.

Alistair drew in and released a quick breath. He wasn't usually this alert and lucid when he dreamed. Or if he was, he didn't remember it upon waking. Oh, Maker, this was a dream, wasn't it? He wasn't someone trapped against his will in the Fade by a demon again, was he?

There was a movement in the courtyard below him and his eyes were immediately drawn to a familiar figure in white cloth and silver metal. He sucked in a sharp gasp. The man wasn't facing him, but he would know the set of those shoulders and that stance anywhere.

It could be a trick, he tried to tell himself. If he was trapped in the Fade, it could be a demon's way of getting to him, like the demons in the tower had done. If it was, they had gotten better than showing him the image of a sister he'd never met. If he'd been confronted with Duncan in the Fade, he might never have left when she….

His eyes widened. No, this couldn't be a trap. He _remembered_ her. He remembered meeting her and fighting beside her. He remembered giving her the rose that very night before they went to sleep.

Suddenly he was racing through the empty hallways down to the courtyard. No one knew what happened to your soul when you died. If he wasn't trapped, there was the chance that this was real, that the figure he saw really was Duncan. And he had to know.

The door burst open before him as he dashed into the yard and ran toward the figure. Duncan stood facing him. As Alistair slowed as he got closer to Duncan, he could see that the man appeared real. Unlike Goldanna, there was solidness to him. His features were firm and fixed, without any of the subtle shifting that came from the demons trying to emulate a woman he'd never seen before.

When Alistair stopped before him, Duncan smiled, a wide true smile that he'd only seen the older man give a handful of times, but it was so familiar and so right that his breath caught in his chest. He looked at his Commander—his mentor, his savior and the closest thing he'd ever had to a father.

"Duncan?" he whispered.

"Alistair," Duncan returned.

The voice, the inflection was all just right.

"But you're dead!" he blurted out.

"That I am."

Alistair shook his head. "How is this…? Why…? Is this even real?"

Duncan shrugged slightly. "As real as anything in this place is."

"So how—_why_—is this happening?"

Duncan raised an eyebrow. "Your guess is as good as mine. I've no more understanding of the Fade than you. But as we're both here, perhaps there was something you needed."

Everything that Alistair had felt since Ostagar suddenly came pouring out.

"I'm sorry, Duncan, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry we were late to light the signal and that Loghain abandoned you. I'm sorry that you died. I should have been there to protect you. Ferelden needs you more than me. It should have been me. Everything is such a mess and you would be so much better at this—"

He was cut off by Duncan's hands grabbing his shoulders. "Enough, Alistair," the older Warden said quietly. "Enough. You cannot change the past. What's done is done. What happened was _not_ your fault. You did everything you were supposed to do and you did it well. You need to stop blaming yourself."

Duncan tilted his head and grinned. "And I'll make that an order if I have to."

Alistair laughed weakly. There was a lump in his throat. Duncan saying it was all right helped, but it didn't remove all of the guilt, the crushing weight of responsibility he felt.

"I don't know how I'm going to do this, Duncan."

"You're not alone, Alistair."

He looked up at Duncan sharply. No, he wasn't alone. There were the others—Leliana, Wynne, Sten and Zevran—though he didn't trust the assassin. Andraste's flaming sword, there was even the dog, more loyal and steadfast in battle than many men he'd seen.

And leading them all was the other Warden—though she was rapidly becoming much more to Alistair than a sister-in-arms and a leader.

"No one is asking you to do this all by yourself, Alistair. Trust yourself and the others you're with. This is your fight now and you are equal to the task."

"Do you really think so? Do you really think we can do this?" he asked.

"I do," Duncan replied.

"It's just…." He ran a hand through his hair. "It's so hard sometimes to know what to do. And I shoved off all the responsibility for making decisions onto _her_ and it wasn't fair of me to do. I should have been able to handle it better."

"We all do things we regret. And at times we all think ourselves unequal to the tasks set before us."

"Even you?"

Duncan's dark brown eyes met his. "Especially me. I made mistakes, Alistair, don't ever think otherwise. And there were times when I couldn't see any good way out of a situation. Sometimes there isn't one and all you can do is try to keep the damage down."

Alistair nodded. "I just don't want to let you down."

Duncan's sigh was both long-suffering and fond. "You haven't, Alistair. And you won't. I have faith in you. I always have. But you can't live your life trying to please a man dead and gone. I never expected you to be anything other that what you are. And what you are is a good man and a good Warden. Keep being who you are and you'll be fine."

That…helped. He wasn't expected to be perfect, to save everyone. He'd always been so worried about failing Duncan and to know that he hadn't brought him some peace.

The Fade flickered around him, objects along the periphery starting to lose their definition. There was one more thing he wanted to say and he had only moments. For all the time he had known Duncan, the man's demeanor had revealed him to be intensely private. There was a sort of aloofness to him, and while Alistair suspected Duncan had cared for him, Duncan always held himself slightly apart.

Alistair ignored that now. Whether this was real or not, Duncan was gone and he'd never get another chance like this. He embraced Duncan fiercely. "I miss you," he said quickly. "And thank you—for everything."

There was a moment when he thought he felt Duncan returned the hug, but then everything faded completely away.

"Alistair. Alistair, wake up."

Alistair blinked awake, looking up into a pair of bright eyes.

"Hey, you're finally awake," she said. "Come on, let's get going. I hear there are some ashes to find in this temple."

He sat up yawning and began to pull his armor on, then paused. He frowned, a fragment of…something drifting through his mind. He'd been having a dream—a good one—but he couldn't remember what it was. With a shrug and a shake of his head he dismissed it. No point in worrying about.

As Leliana handed him some bread and cheese, he gathered his weapons. He felt really good this morning, and he smiled, recalling last night. She was still a rare and wonderful thing amidst the darkness, but somehow things didn't seem quite so dark this morning.


	7. WP 5: First Meeting

Prompt #5: First Meeting

* * *

Alistair hurried through the halls of the royal palace. He hadn't been here all that long, and the thought that this was going to be his home from now off still sat a little uncomfortably, but at least he wasn't getting lost anymore. It helped that right now he knew exactly where he was going, and that his urgency and expression kept the dozens of people who wanted a piece of his time these days from attempting to stop him.

When Eamon had brought him the news, he'd forbidden the older man—and anyone else—to tell Lya. This was going to mean everything to her and he wanted to be the one to tell her. He'd been able to give her so little that he didn't want to miss this opportunity.

Luckily, she wasn't hard to find. She was in one of the large halls they'd been using, organizing the clean up of Denerim and meeting with those in charge of the crews responsible for disposing of the bodies. The two of them had done their fair of helping out, the only two who could touch darkspawn corpses without any fear. As it was, they both fretted over allowing others to destroy the corpses, but they couldn't do it all on their own and the men seemed willing to take the risk.

Right now she was arranging to tear down several buildings that were beyond saving so the timbers could be used for pyres. He smiled when he saw her, he couldn't help it. Even as frazzled as she looked, with mussed hair and a rumpled shirt, she was still beautiful.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said. "I need to borrow your future queen. Carry on with what you are doing, I expect she'll be occupied for the rest of the day."

The men nodded and saluted as Alistair took Lya's arm and drew her away.

"Alistair, what are you doing?" she asked. "I know we've been too tired and busy lately to spend much time together, but there are things we really need to get done." The slight grin and teasing gleam in her eyes let him know she wasn't being harsh.

"Oh, believe me, I know." There really hadn't been any time for just the two of them lately, and what time they did have together, was all too often spent deciding logistics or getting a few hours of much needed sleep.

"As much as I'd love to just drag you off for an afternoon somewhere where no one can bother us, this isn't about me. This is for you. I have a surprise for you."

Her brow furrowed in puzzlement as he led her toward the guest quarters. He'd made sure that there was no mistake, and Eamon had sworn that the man who appeared at the palace claiming to be who he said he was really was who he said he was.

He knocked perfunctorily on the door and then opened it, stepping to the side so that Lya could have an unimpeded view of the tall, dark-haired man waiting inside.

For a moment, she was absolutely still, not even breathing as her eyes and mouth went wide in shock. Then the man, whose own face bore the ravages of grief, smiled and held out his arms.

"Fergus!" Lya shrieked and then she was moving, running to throw herself into his arms, her own arms and legs wrapping around her brother as if she'd never let him go again.

She said nothing more, her sobbing being too much for her to speak through. She clung to her brother as he clung to her, his face buried in her shoulder, shaking with his own sobs.

Alistair, who remained in the hall, turned to a waiting servant. "Anything they need," he said, "get it. And see that they're not disturbed."

"Yes, ser," she said, curtseying. Alistair closed the door gently, leaving the siblings to share their mixed joy and grief in private. Running a hand over his suspiciously damp eyes, he walked back to the meeting room and the tasks that awaited him there.

Lya found him a few hours later, her eyes still red-rimmed, but her expression ecstatic. She threw herself at him and he caught her easily. "Thank you," she whispered.

"I didn't do anything," said Alistair. "He found his way here on his own after he heard about you."

"I know, he told me. But I'm glad you're the one who told me. Maker, Alistair, my brother is alive. He's _alive_!" She laughed happily. "We're not alone anymore!"

Dashing at the new tears running down her cheeks, she tugged on his arm. "Come on. He wants to meet you. I want you to meet him! He says you didn't before, that you went and got me as soon as you found out."

She pulled him down the hall, practically running and he had to jog to keep up with her. Once back at the room, she pushed him inside. "Fergus, this is Alistair. Alistair, this is Fergus."

For a moment, the two men just looked at each other. This close, Alistair could see the resemblance between Lya and her brother. Both had the same jaw lines and chin, the same foreheads. Their eyes were different, Fergus's a bright blue next to Lya's green, and his hair had a touch of red in it compared to her sable color, but there was no denying that these two were blood.

There was a hard look in Fergus's eyes as the man blatantly and unashamedly appraised him. Alistair found himself straightening under that gaze, wanting to meet whatever expectations Fergus had of him. There were very few people whose opinion he cared about—Lya's only remaining family was one of them.

"I've heard a lot about you these last few weeks," Fergus finally said.

"Good things, I hope," Alistair joked and then mentally kicked himself. Not the impression he should be giving the first time he met the brother of the woman he was marrying.

But Fergus grinned and held out a hand. Alistair clasped it, feeling a profound sense of relief that he'd passed whatever test Fergus was judging him on. He expected Fergus to let go of his hand once they'd shook, but instead Lya's brother pulled him into a rough hug.

"Thank you for keeping her safe," Fergus said quietly.

"I didn't. Uh, I mean…" Alistair stammered, slightly embarrassed. "I had help, and I'd say she protected me equally as much."

"She'd argue that with you. But if that's the case, then thank you for making her happy."

Fergus held out an arm and Lya joined them, burrowing in between them so that she was hugging both of them. The two men grinned at each other over her head.

"Welcome to the family, brother," murmured Fergus.


	8. WP 6: Split Hairs

Prompt #6: Splitting Hairs

* * *

A despairing cry pulled Alistair from sleep and he came awake reaching for a sword that wasn't there. His hand slid across the sheets, grasping, before reason asserted itself. Bed. Bedroom. Palace. Denerim. There were no threats here, and if anything _did_ happen, well, the rest of the palace would probably know before he did.

He rolled over onto his side and looked blearily across the room at his wife, who sat at her vanity weeping softly. Facing an archdemon a week seemed almost preferable when his pregnant wife was a weepy, inconsolable mess. Dragons he knew how to handle. Upset pregnant women? Not so much.

"What's wrong, love?" he called across the room.

"My hair!" Lya wailed.

Oh, Maker, help him. It was going to be one of _these_ days. He sighed softly and slid out of bed, padding over to her on bare feet. He stopped behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them in soothing circles.

"What's wrong with your hair?"

"It's ruined!"

He looked down. Long, dark brown tresses, with a hint of wave and slightly mussed from sleep. Everything looked normal to him. "It looks fine to me."

"It's not! Just look at it!" Lya held up a lock of hair for his inspection. He took it gently, examining it and frowning.

"I still don't see the problem."

Lya pulled her hair from his grasp angrily. "The ends! They're frayed. And it keeps getting snarled and when I tried to brush it this morning the brush got caught and I couldn't get it out and I ended up ripping out a hunk of my hair and it hurt and—!"

"Hey, hey, hey, calm down." Straddling the bench next to her, he hugged her. Experience had taught not to try and convince her she was being silly, but to simply reassure her and try to find a solution.

"Listen, if that's the problem, then we'll just cut your hair."

"No!" She pushed away from him, suddenly angry. "I don't want to cut my hair!"

Taking a deep breath, Alistair closed his eyes and counted to ten. "And why don't you want to cut your hair?"

"Because you said you wanted to see me with long hair. So I did this for you and now you're saying I shouldn't?"

Andraste's flaming sword! "I'm not suggesting we leave you shorn, dear. I'm just suggesting something I thought would make it easier for you."

She fingered the ends of her hair. "You wouldn't mind?"

"Oh, Lya, of course not. To even think that is sil—I mean, don't even consider me. I fell in love with you when you had short hair, and I'd love you if you were bald. It doesn't matter to me. It's just hair."

Her expression, which had started to soften, suddenly hardened and her eyes snapped with anger. "It's just hair? _It's just hair_? _You_, who spends almost as much time as I do fixing your hair, are telling _me_ that it's just _hair_?"

Oh, he'd really stepped in it now. It would be nice if he could see these pitfalls before he fell into them. He scooted back a little, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Poor choice of words on my part, sorry. You're absolutely right. This isn't something to take lightly."

"Maybe I should have you cut off as much hair as I do."

Alistair winced, touching his hair reflexively. It wasn't that long. If he did that, he would be practically bald and he wasn't too keen on that. But, if it would help….

He sighed in resignation. "If you really insisted on it, well, I'd live."

Lya frowned thoughtfully. "You really would, wouldn't you?

At least her crying had stopped. "Yes, I really would."

She looked at him for another minute and then threw her arms around his neck. "I'm sorry. You're right. I'm being an idiot."

"I never said that."

"But you thought it." She kissed the side of his neck. "And I am being an idiot. I'll find someone to cut it for me later. And don't worry—I'd never make you do that to your own hair."

He smiled, glad that this had been fairly easy to resolve _and_ that he'd gotten out of it intact. A good start to any day.

"Probably," Lya added, a mischievous smile pulling up the corner of her mouth.


	9. GP 3: Encounter

Guest Prompt #3: Hawke walks into a bar and sees Drunkenstair.

* * *

**Encounter**

Noise and light spilled from the tavern out into the street. The door was open and the shutters were latched back to allow air in through the unglazed windows—glass would be a foolish idea in an establishment like this.

Nerys stood on the steps, looking in at the crowd, and debated whether or not she wanted to enter. If she hadn't been alone, the answer would have been clear. Fending off the inevitable drunken oafs was much easier in a group—and she tried not to think of a certain rogue whose job that used to be. Gritting her teeth, she stepped into the crowded common room. She needed information and a bed for the night and she had the coin to see that this tavern would provide both.

Whistles and cheers accompanied her entrance and she ignored them as she pushed her way to the bar. Her armor and weapons would dissuade most from approaching her and the quicker her business was concluded, the faster she would be able to avoid the rest.

The barkeep provided both a room and the name of a man who could help her. She wove through the crowd deftly to the corner the barkeep had nodded at, seeking the man, Evert, sitting in shadows.

He listened to her request and nodded, while running his eyes up and down her slowly. Nerys simply crossed her arms adopted an easy stance. She'd been through too much to be intimidated by the likes of him.

"I might be able to help you," he said. "Though it'll cost you."

"I'll pay what it's worth—after I hear it."

"That might work. But for now, why don't you join us?" Evert gestured to an empty seat.

Nerys shifted and then sat. A bit of friendliness couldn't hurt.

"You're not from around here," the man said. "From your accent, I'd say…Ferelden?" She nodded and he smiled. "Such a small world. I have a…friend here who'd love to see a face from home. Wouldn't you, Al?" He turned to face a man leaning back in a chair, head tipped back, apparently asleep.

When no answer was forthcoming, Evert reached out a foot, hooked it around a chair leg, and pulled. The motion sent the chair and the man slamming into the ground. Laughter immediately welled from the surrounding people as the man picked himself up.

He was a big man, she noticed immediately, tall and broad. His blond hair was ragged and unkempt, falling to his shoulders and several days worth of growth shadowed his jaw. Large hands clenched into fists as he glared at Evert before he relaxed them, picked his chair up and sat back down.

"Alistair here is from Ferelden as well. Aren't you, Al?" The big man glared at Evert for another moment.

"Yes," he said in a hoarse voice.

Nerys frowned, regarding man. She'd have placed money on him being a warrior. His build, the particular set of his shoulders, the calluses on his hands all seemed to fit. But he was clearly low in the pecking order here, if Evert could abuse him and the others could laugh without any fear of reprisal.

"Say hello to our new friend, Alistair."

Alistair looked over at her and for a moment, she saw disgust in his eyes. And then it passed, and he merely looked like a sad, broken man again.

Evert grinned maliciously. "Alistair here tells such interesting stories about Ferelden. Entertain the lady, Alistair. Regale us with some stories about how you fought the Blight as a Grey Warden and almost became a king." Laughter rose around them again.

But Alistair ignored the man and turned his head away, muscles twitching in his jaw. A dim, distant memory tugged at Nerys's mind as she studied his profile. Lothering. The Chantry. Just a few days before her family fled.

He was older, bitter lines etched into his face, and hadn't been living well, but yes, he was familiar. An odd encounter she remembered only because of what it had meant in retrospect.

Nerys made small talk with Evert until she was satisfied she'd be able o pay a fair price for the information he would gather. Then she excused herself and retreated to a dark corner. When most of the crowd left the tavern and Alistair finally got up and left, she hesitated only briefly before following.

She followed him down two streets before he turned into an alley, and she followed, only to find he had stopped just inside and was turned to face her.

"What do you want?" he asked tiredly.

"I remember you." He frowned in confusion. "From Lothering. My family was in the Chantry when you and the Warden came in."

For a long time he said nothing, looking past her into the empty street. Then he nodded. "You made it out."

For a moment, she thought of Carver. "Most of us, yes."

He struggled visibly for a moment for what to say and then took a deep breath. "I'm glad someone did. Was there anything else you wanted?"

It was probably a bad idea, but Nerys reached for her coin pouch anyway. He'd probably only spend it on drink—she could smell it on him—but he had helped her once in Lothering and she was in a position to repay the favor.

She held out the sovereigns, but he shook his head. "I don't want your pity."

"It's not pity." He gave a humorless laugh. "Call it thanks. For what you did in Lothering. If you and the Warden hadn't convinced the merchant to lower his prices, we'd never have been able to get the supplies we needed to leave. Use these to do the same. Get away from Evert. Bastards like him will take everything you've got and then get rid of you. You don't deserve that."

Alistair allowed her to take his hand and press the coins into it. And then she stepped back and headed out of the alley. Before she got to the end, she turned back. He was still looking at her.

Nerys suppressed the surge of pity. She didn't have time to go around saving people from themselves. She'd done what she could. If Alistair didn't use the coins to find safety, then maybe they'd buy him a few minutes of peace in the bottom or a bottle or in a willing woman.

There were worse ways to make coin than from pity. And worse uses for coin than drink or whores. She should know. She'd done most of them.


	10. GP 4: Innocence

Guest Prompt #4: Just because a man appears to be innocent, does not mean he actually is such.

This is a tad different b/c I do two separate takes on it. Sort of like a "two sides of the same coin" idea.

* * *

**Innocence**

They all thought Alistair was innocent.

The thought made him chuckle when he was alone. As if growing up in the Chantry meant he didn't have eyes, ears or a brain. They all seemed to forget that templar initiates lived in the real world, that they weren't just confined to the walls of the monastery.

He would watch people whenever he had a chance, observing how men and women spoke the each other. When he could, he would listen in and overhear what they said to each. It was fascinating and enlightening to learn what made women and girls smile and giggle and see how they used their wiles to keep the attentions of their men folk. And the recruits talked, those who'd come later and had experience sharing what they knew with the boy who's had the chance.

Granted, living with a group of teenage boys—carefully segregated from the female recruits—there wasn't really any opportunity to practice what he'd learned, but he filed the information carefully away anyway. The grim reality of his situation didn't kill the hopes he had of someday escaping the life planned out for him.

And by bizarre chance and circumstance, he had escaped it. More importantly, he'd escaped it and ended up by the side of a woman who intrigued him to no end. And suddenly the information he'd filed away was useful.

He spent a lot of time watching at first. Carys was unlike any woman he'd ever met, the fiery Dalish archer being prickly and stand-offish. There had been initial physical attraction on his part, but he'd thought the chance of anything more was remote at best. But as the weeks passed, she softened. Her guard against letting anyone close dropped and she began to warm up to her companions.

Alistair carefully began applying that stored information, seeing what effect each thing had with Carys. It was thrilling to see what worked, when she began tossing him shy smiles or sitting next to him around the fire at night. The companions looked on knowingly, thinking he had no idea what he was doing. And Alistair had no desire to disabuse them of that notion.

So he endured Wynne's and Leliana's gentle teasing, Zevran knowing leers and quips about prowess and wooing, Oghren's crude comments and Morrigan's acerbic remarks. And there _was_ a flutter of nerves when he finally asked her to his tent, because he was actually innocent in that respect.

But after Carys had said yes, after they'd spent night after night together, Alistair didn't think much about what their companions thought about him.

They'd thought him innocent? They didn't know him very well at all.

* * *

They all thought Alistair was innocent.

The thought made him want to howl with laughter, but he suppressed the urge. He kept what he really felt and thought locked tight behind an impenetrable mask of genial smiles and good hearted laughter. It served his purposes to let everyone think of him as simple and naïve. They said things around him, revealed things because they thought he could do no harm with the information. More the fools they.

And the elf…. He wanted her since the moment he'd seen her at Ostagar, the dark lines of her tattoos and eerie blue eyes being exotic and intoxicating. Women were no mystery to him anymore, not since Duncan had conscripted him and he'd suddenly had the freedom to act on the years of want and desire he'd been forced to deny in the Chantry.

But Carys, she was different. From their first meeting, he saw that she wasn't the type to fall for either the bumbling almost-templar or the dark, brooding Grey Warden. So he waited and watched, adopting the almost-templar persona because he felt she and their companions would be less threatened by it.

And he learned.

Alistair watched Carys like a hawk, filing away every scrap of information. And when the time was right, he began using them, drawing her in until escape was impossible. She would be his, he vowed, and bent all of his efforts toward that goal.

Zevran was the sole one among them who suspected anything. Alistair watched him, too. He saw the way the assassin began to try his wiles on the Dalish Warden and moved swiftly to head that off. A shared watch provided the perfect opportunity.

"You will leave her alone." He smiled gently as he said it, keeping his tone affable.

Zevran lifted an eyebrow. "Oh? I do not think this is your decision, Alistair. The Warden is a strong woman. She will make her own decisions, yes?"

Alistair continued to smile, but he let the templar fall away and replaced it with the Warden—the dark, vicious killer.

"This is all the warning you get. Stay away from her. She is mine."

Zevran went very still, weighing Alistair's word and expression. Finally he nodded once, quick and short. "It is as you say."

After that, Zevran watched him carefully, but made no further moves toward Carys, keeping himself carefully apart. She was hurt by his withdrawal, and Alistair took it as an opportunity to comfort her, using it as one more thing to manipulate her and tie her more closely to him.

He ignored the teasing from the others, the comments about young love and his moon-eyed affections to their leader. Only Zevran knew differently and he wisely kept his mouth shut.

And when he took her to his tent—for he didn't bother to ask—he knew he'd won. He held her against him, reveling in the thrilling combination of hard and soft, and claimed her body as his own. His sense of power was heady, knowing she'd danced to his tune and that their passion and coupling was one more link in the chain that bound her to him.

In the morning, there were more knowing looks among their companions, and he played the part of the shy, virginal templar to their amusement.

They thought him innocent? They knew _nothing_.


	11. GP 5: Sacrifice

Guest Prompt #5: There is no love without sacrifice.

* * *

**A Willing Sacrifice**

"Are you sure you don't mind?" Carys asked again.

She was currently laying half across Alistair's chest, her fingers idly tracing along the lines of the griffon tattoo that lay over the left side of his chest. He'd always been interested in the curving circles and lines of her own vallasin, and she encouraged him to get something that had meaning for him. Eventually, he agreed, and had asked Zevran for help, which the assassin had willingly given.

It was the tattoo that had prompted her to ask him that question again for what seemed like the hundredth time.

"Why do you keep asking?" he replied. "You know I don't."

She laid her head on his chest, the smooth skin warm against her cheek. "I feel selfish," she confessed. "I'm taking you away from everything you're ever known and I don't even know what I want to do or where to go."

"Is that what you really think?"

"Yes. All you've ever known is Ferelden, and you did everything with me to save Ferelden. And now we're leaving."

"Because you don't want to stay. I understand that, Carys." He shifted slightly beneath her, pulling her completely flush against him and rubbing her back. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shook her head, then nodded, then sighed. "There's just so much pain back in Ferelden. I lost everything there. _We_ lost everything there."

"Not everything," he murmured. Smiling, she kissed the skin beneath her lips.

"No, not everything," she agreed. "But first it was Tamlen and then my clan. And then the Wardens. And then it was nothing but fighting and death. And in the end…everyone else left." There was sorrow in her voice at the last part. Maybe it was foolish, but she had thought she and the others had grown close enough that they might want to stay. But one by one, they had said their goodbyes and left for distant shores.

"There are just too many bad memories. I want to start fresh somewhere—just you and me, in a place where there are no bad memories or monsters waiting for us.

"But it means taking you away from your home and the Grey Wardens. You love them. And I don't really have the right to ask that much of you."

"You say it like that's some great sacrifice," laughed Alistair.

"Isn't it?"

"Not really. Look at it this way: I don't want any harm to come to Ferelden or her people. That's part of the reason I fought, yes. But the two places I ever called home—Redcliffe and the Chantry—never felt like homes to me. They weren't really. So what I am in giving up? Not much, especially not when staying upsets you.

"I want to be where you are—it doesn't matter where that is. I would give up anything and everything for you. Ferelden will always be there waiting if we ever want to return, and so will the Wardens."

He yawned. "Now go to sleep. The morning tide is early tomorrow and we don't want to miss our ship."

"All right." Carys settled against him. "Are you really sure—"

"Go. To. Sleep."


	12. GP 6: Moonlight

Guest Prompt #6: A clear, moonlit night.

* * *

**Moonlight**

"Alistair." The voice whispered urgently just from beyond the tent flaps and Alistair turned his head toward the sound groggily.

"What?" he mumbled.

"Alistair," Kalea whispered again. "Come here."

Sighing, he sat up and pushed the blankets off of him, shivering as the cold leeched away the body heat that had been trapped in their blankets. He pulled his clothes on and shoved his feet into his cold boots.

"I swear," he muttered, crawling out of the tent, "if there isn't a _huge_ darkspawn raiding party about to descend upon us, I'm going to…."

The words died in his throat. It had begun snowing yesterday afternoon—it was one of the reasons they had set up camp early—but the storm had apparently passed during the night. Now the sky was brilliantly clear, the stars twinkling like diamonds set inside a perfectly black sky. The moon was full, a radiant white disk whose light reflected off the undisturbed snow around them.

The reflected light lit up the area almost as if it were daytime. He could read by this light if he wanted to. But that was the furthest thing on his mind.

Kalea stood on a slight rise, her small tracks in the snow to only thing breaking the smooth whiteness around them. In the moonlight, her skin was eerily pale, her red hair appearing far darker than normal, and her eyes looked like black pools.

"This is amazing!" she said.

"Snow?"

"Yes! It's incredible." She bent down to scoop up a handful of snow and held it before her face. "Each one of these is a tiny ice crystal. We read about them in the Tower. Those of us skilled in ice spells used to recreate it, but it never worked very well. I've never gotten a chance to see real snow before."

"You've never seen snow before?"

"Uh-uh." She reached out with her tongue and licked some of the snow out of her hand, laughed and let it fall.

Alistair swallowed past the lump in his throat. Kalea was such a contradiction. When dealing with people, she was often cynical, expecting the worse. She was always on guard and never let people to close.

But other things revealed a child-like wonder and naiveté. She delighted in sunrises and sunsets and counting the stars. The changing of the leaves fascinated her and he knew she kept a journal where she'd carefully preserved them between the pages. And then there was the time he had to bodily haul her out of thunderstorm and back into the house they were sheltering in for the day.

And now…snow. She seemed fascinated by it, like a small child would be. Moving quietly, he reached out, scooped up a handful of snow and packed it together. Waiting until she was distracted again, and turned slightly away from him, he threw it—right at her bottom.

She shrieked and spun around, eyes wide as he packed another snowball together and lobbed it at her. Another shriek as she dodged out of the way and then she was laughing and reaching for her own handful of snow.

They chased each other around the clearing, throwing and dodging snowballs—missing more often than not—until they were red faced and panting with breath. Abandoning the icy missiles, Alistair caught Kalea around the waist and spun her until they landed in the snow. She was giggling as he rolled on top of her and leaned in close to kiss her.

Her nose was cold against his cheek and so were her fingers as her hand crept around his neck. But the rest of her was warm and delightfully soft beneath him. He was about to suggest going back to their tent to warm up when something cold and wet fell down the back of his shirt.

With a sharp cry, he sat up on his knees, frantically shaking the snow out of his clothes before it could melt too much. "You little…" he growled and picked up a handful of snow, brandishing it over her face.

Kalea squeaked and covered her face. "Please don't! I'm sorry!" She sounded contrite, but her eyes danced with mischief and she was grinning.

Alistair let the snow fall and brushed his hands off as he stood, and then leaned down to pick her up by the waist. He settled her in his arms and she wound her own around his neck, leaning in to nuzzle against his neck as he carried her back to their tent.

"Alistair?"

"Hmmm?"

"Can we play in the snow again tomorrow?"

He chuckled against her hair as he nudged the tent flaps aside and ducked to enter. "I promise you, Kalea, as long as there aren't any darkspawn or people trying to kill us, we can play in the snow whenever you want."

"Good," she said as he laid her down and stretched out next to her. "And you know what I like even better than playing in the snow?"

"What's that?"

She leaned in toward him. "Warming up," she whispered against his lips.

As it turned out, that was Alistair's favorite thing about playing in the snow, too.


	13. GP 7: Apology

Guest Prompt #7: Love means never having to say you're sorry.

* * *

**Apology**

Zevran followed the odd little party back to their camp. To say that he was shocked by the turn of events would be an understatement, but life as a Crow had taught him to adapt to all situations quickly.

The two Grey Wardens walked ahead of him. The man kept turning back to glare at him and Zevran responded with a cocky smile each time he did. It only infuriated the man more, and so the cycle continued. The red haired rogue was walking beside him and chatting amiably, trying to coax him into talking. On his other side was the dog, who would growl at him every so often. He had known Fereldans practically worshipped the slobbering things, but he hadn't expected them to be so big. This beast was all muscle and bone, and having seen what it had done back at the ambush, he had no desire to give it any reason to go for his throat.

But it was the female Warden who warranted his study. When he had opened his eyes to find himself still alive, she had been the first thing he had seen. For a brief moment, he thought that maybe he was dead and she was some benevolent deity come to end his suffering. But then he had felt the coarse rope that bound his arms behind his back and the rock that dug sharply into his hip as he lay on the ground. His head began to ache abominably, and his confused mind reminded him that was because she had slammed her shield into his face with enough force to almost snap his neck.

They had all been standing around him, glaring down at him, but she was clearly the leader and so he kept his attention focused on her. He quickly realized why he was still alive and answered all of her questions willingly. And she certainly asked a lot of them. He flirted with her as he did so, naturally. It was like breathing to him. She did not seem particularly amused by it, however, and he wondered if he were sabotaging his chances for a quick, clean death. When her seemingly endless supply of questions finally ended, he simply waited.

She stood looking at him with a troubled expression on her face. As the silence stretched, Zevran found himself offering to join her. He had no idea why, except that this might be his one chance at freedom. As he spoke, telling her about all the reasons it would be a good idea to both keep him alive and take him along, her expression changed. It became something he knew very well—coldly calculating. She placed his life on some set of internal scales and weighed his worth.

He wondered cynically if she would come to the same conclusion the Crows and so many others had come to—that he was a valuable tool to be bought cheaply and used until he no longer served a purpose. She finally nodded and bent down to cut his bindings. The other Warden argued with her, but she just muttered that they could use him. She reached out to help him up and he swore his oath.

And now he was one of them. Odd how quickly one's fortunes can change. They arrived back at their camp and he took stock of the others there. There were three more: a qunari, a fairly surprising sight, an older mage who despite her years still looked fairly attractive, and a younger mage dressed in the most interesting garb. He admitted his curiosity piqued at such an eclectic group and began re-evaluating the Warden. He would definitely have to get to know her better, if only as a matter of self-preservation.

Lya made terse introductions and then set about removing the gore from his attempted assassination from her weapons and armor. Alistair and Leliana did the same thing, but Alistair kept as far away from himself as possible and continued shooting the elf dirty looks. Zevran would have liked to clean up as well, but the only possessions he now owned were his armor and weapons. A soft rustle of cloth made him turn to see the older mage, Wynne her name was, settling beside him.

"Here, let me see how badly they've injured you," she said, not unkindly. She gently probed Zevran's injuries and examined his cuts. She frowned when he winced as she felt the contusions on his face and head. "You've very lucky, you know."

"Oh? From the way everyone except that delectable bard is looking at me, lucky would be the last word I would have chosen."

She sighed in exasperation at his flippant comment. "I meant with your injuries, young man. They could have easily killed you in that fight. They are not really the sort to be trifled with, as many are coming to learn." She finished examining him and then gently placed her hands on his head and let her healing magic flow over him. He sighed in relief as he felt pain recede from wounds he wasn't even aware he had.

Wynne got to her feet, but returned a moment later with a water skin and some rags. "Here," she said. "You should get yourself cleaned up. We're not going to be going anywhere else today." She then moved away again, going to the Wardens and Leliana to tend to the injuries they had received.

* * *

The rest of the day passed slowly and everyone, even Zevran, could see the fight that was brewing between Lya and Alistair. Both were short tempered and snappy, avoiding each other. Zevran kept his head down. He knew he was the cause of the tension and had no desire to draw attention to himself. Leliana tried to speak with Lya, but a glare from the younger woman sent her scurrying away. Wynne attempted the same thing with Alistair, but he just stalked away from the mage, muttering under his breath.

Things reached a head after dinner. Alistair stalked over to Lya and glared down at her. She returned his stare with one equally fierce and Zevran thought they were going to come to blows right there. But something passed between them and she rose to her feet, following Alistair out beyond the light of the fire. Zevran wondered if perhaps someone should follow them. He had seen this kind of anger before and it usually let to bloodshed. Lots of it. Wynne reached over and patted his arm.

"Don't worry. They won't hurt each other. Yell and scream? Yes, but there won't be any physical altercation." He watched the set of their backs and wondered if this mage really knew her companions as well she thought.

Alistair was furious with Lya. How could she even think about letting the assassin who just tried to kill them come along with them? How were they supposed to sleep at night with that…that _elf_ around?

He rounded on her as soon as they were out of earshot of the others. "What are you thinking?" he cried. "An assassin! An assassin, Lya! How in the Maker's name is this a good idea?"

She crossed her arms and glared at him icily, her feet planted solidly in a wide stance. "I told you, we can use him."

"Oh, we can use him, is it? How exactly are we supposed to trust him, would you mind telling me that? The man tries to kill you and ten minutes later you're certain he's not going to try to anymore? How does that even make sense? I'll tell you! It doesn't! It's insane!"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Oh, so now we're not only questioning my leadership skills, but my sanity as well?" she asked ominously. "What would you have me do, Alistair? You could have killed him when he was unconscious, but you didn't. And for the same reasons none of us did. We needed answers and we got them. What were we supposed to do with him after that? Just slit his throat and watch him bleed out? If you wanted to, then why didn't you just do it?" She was so angry at him. Didn't he see the position she was in, the position they were all in?

"It was your decision," he snapped back. "I said I would go along with what you decide, but that doesn't mean I'll always agree with it or that I'm not allowed to say so. This is still a bad idea. I don't trust him." Lya found herself shaking from the effort not to go over there and punch him as hard as she could as he stood there, sanctimonious in his self-righteous anger. How dare he? Who did he think he was?

"Don't you get it?" she screamed at him. Her anger, her frustration, her fear—all the things that had been building these last couple of months finally crested over the walls she had built to contain them. They came bursting forth in a torrent of rage that she could only direct at the man standing in front of her.

"You don't trust him? Well, guess what? Neither do I! Is that what you want to hear? Fine! I don't trust him! I don't _have_ to trust him! All I have to do is use him like I'm using everybody else! Look at our party, Alistair, look at it! How many of them do you really think are going to survive this? What do we have for allies? A Witch of the Wilds who's here because her _mother_—an ancient abomination of legend, mind you—sent her! A lay sister who just happens to be an Orlesian spy more suited to the political intrigues of a city who dreams that the Maker talks to her! An elderly circle mage who just survived watching her home destroyed and her friends killed or turned into abominations! A qunari who slaughtered a family of innocents and wants to make up for it by dying in battle! And now an elven assassin from Antiva who was for all purposes is a slave with no choice!

"I am going to use them all, Alistair! Sten and Zevran were already dead, so if they die doing what I need them to, then who cares? No one will mourn their passing and there are probably a lot who would rejoice at it. Morrigan can take off whenever she wants, as can Leliana. Wynne wants to be here, so why should I care if she dies doing something she wants? She's practically given me her life to do with as I please! And then there's you! My fellow Grey Warden. You'll stay with me because you don't have a choice. You already said you can't do this on your own. You _need_ me! So you'll shut up and follow what I say because you don't have any choice!"

She was shaking for a different reason now and realized she was close to tears. Her voice dropped and the anger in it faded. "And you know what the worst part is, Alistair? I like them. I like all of them. They're my friends and I'm still going to use them. If I need to take their lives to end this Blight, I'll do it. Even you, Alistair," she said, her voice breaking a little on his name. "I'm going to use you, too, and you're going to hate me for it, but I'm still going to do it.

"I'm going to do it because I don't have a choice. I am a Grey Warden, after all. It's my _duty_ to end the Blight." She turned away from him in disgust, scrubbing her hands over her face to remove the tears she hadn't been able to stop. "What does that make me?" she said hoarsely. "What kind of monster am I to take the lives of the only people who care about me and throw them away?"

Alistair took the rage she hurled at him silently, his own anger fading under the force of her pain. He was angry _because_ he was worried about her. And her words stung more than he cared to admit. He was too afraid of messing everything up that it was easier to let others lead, easier to let all the terrible decisions rest on someone else's shoulders. It was his fault that she was the one stuck with all this responsibility. But now that it was her shoulders that everything rested on, shoulders that seemed all too frail without her armor, he found himself ashamed.

"You're not a monster," he said quietly and she gave a slightly hysterical laugh. He moved to stand behind her, wanting to take her in his arms, to apologize for the hurt his words and actions caused, and knowing he didn't have the right to. "I…. Listen, I'm sorry, all right? I shouldn't have said those things. I only said them because…I was worried about you," he finished in a rush.

"And you're _not_ a monster. All of those people back there are here because they want to be. You don't think they couldn't just leave when they want to? They know you wouldn't blame them for it or try to stop them. They all care about you, Lya. I know I haven't exactly been a big help here. I put you in charge and it's my fault you have to deal with all this. It wasn't fair of me, I know, and I'm sorry. But they all follow you now. Let them try to help. Let…me try to help. Don't keep it all inside like this."

She just stood there, back turned towards him with no hint that she even heard what he said. He didn't know what else he could do. Maybe he should try getting Leliana or Wynne to talk to her. Maker knew he wasn't any good at this comforting stuff. Sticking his sword into bad guys and bashing them with his shield seemed to be his only strengths.

"Will you leave if I fail?"

"I—what?" The question caught him off guard.

Lya turned back to face him. "If I can't do this, will you leave?"

"No, of course not." How could she even ask that?

"Why not?"

"Well, I _am_ a Grey Warden. I can't just abandon another Warden in need." He saw by the way her face suddenly closed that that wasn't the answer she was looking for. _Alistair, you idiot_, the voice in head groaned. Alistair searched for something to say to ease the tension, to take back the hurt he caused. He had to draw her out of this mood. "There is one other reason I wouldn't leave, though," he said, letting a hint of tease creep into his voice

"What?"

"Well, I lost something awhile ago and you found it, but haven't given it back to me. I can't leave until you do."

She looked at him in confusion. Minutes ago they were screaming at each other and now he was looking at her with that silly grin of his. When she said nothing, his face took on a wounded expression.

"You don't even know you have it, do you?"

"Have what?" she finally asked.

"My heart."

For some absurd reason, she looked at his chest, at the swell of muscle underneath his shirt. His heart. Lya's own heart gave a funny little lurch. He cared about her. In his own way, his silly, joking, charming, adorable, touching way, he cared.

She wasn't mad at him anymore, had never really been mad at him in the first place. She didn't regret that he put her in charge; she preferred it in fact. She liked leading and making decisions. She was just tired and frustrated and Alistair was the only one she could take it out on. He was in the same position she was, the only one who understood exactly what they were going through. And when her anger—all to close to the surface these days—got too bottled up, she took it out on him because he was strong enough to take it.

And he _understood_. She'd always had trouble admitting she was wrong, in finding the words to erase to hurts she caused. Alistair had told her after their first fight that she didn't need to apologize, that it was all right and he understood. He didn't need to hear an apology. But…she needed to tell him, and if words weren't right, she would have to find another way to show it.

Hesitatingly, she raised her hand and put it over his heart. Her fingers moved and pressed until she could feel the faint beat within his chest. He was so warm, she thought, blushing a little. She could feel his pulse speed up beneath her hand and his breathing turned ragged. "I think I found it," she murmured.

"Found what?" he asked breathlessly. She was so close, her hand resting on his chest. He couldn't think when she was this close. She drowned out all other thoughts and left him a gibbering idiot.

"Your heart."

"Oh, uh, you must have snuck it back when I wasn't looking." Why was it so warm out? It had been chilly earlier, so why did it suddenly feel as if it were noon on a summer day?

"Well, you have it back now."

"I, um, changed my mind. I—I don't want it back. You keep it." He groaned inwardly. _Smooth, Alistair, real smooth._ Why did he have to turn into a complete moron around her? Her fingers continued to stroke his chest and it was driving him mad.

"Alistair," she said, "do you remember when I said I needed more testing to find out if we were moving too fast?"

"Um, yes…."

"I think I'd like to see how we're doing now." Alistair's last thought was that they should have fights more often.

* * *

They returned to camp awhile later. Zevran observed they were both blushing and Lya was mussed _just so_. He stared in disbelief and muttered, "You _cannot_ be serious!"

Next to him, Leliana just laughed and patted his arm. "Welcome to the group, Zevran."


	14. WP 7: To Be King

Weekly prompt 7: "It's good to be king."

* * *

**To Be King**

"Do I look all right?"

Alistair stood in front of the large mirror in his room, tugging on the collar of his doublet. It was far too tight. Obviously the tailor hadn't taken his measurements properly.

"You look fine."

"Are you sure? Be honest with me. I don't look pretentious or anything, do I?"

His queen came over and firmly removed his hands from plucking at his clothing. She smiled at him as she smoothed out the material. "Pretentious is the last word I would use to describe you, husband. Stop worrying. She saw you covered in blood for nearly a year, I don't think seeing you in some nice clothes is going to upset her."

"I haven't seen her in two years. She's my best friend. I just don't want her to think I've changed."

"You have changed," she said gently. "But that's not a bad thing, Alistair. You're still her friend and nothing will change that. Trust me. Now stop fretting. You're worse than an old woman."

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His wife immediately grabbed that away and smoothed out the mess he'd made of it. "Sorry," he said. "Just…nervous."

"I know." She smiled fondly at him again and he returned it. When he'd had to get married, he'd been very unsure of how things would go, hoping for a civil relationship with his wife at the very least. He was  
profoundly grateful that she'd turned out to be a wonderful friend and companion at first, and then became much more. In the time they'd been married, he'd fallen in love with her and he rather thought she might feel the same way.

And she understood about Bree. He'd reassured her that there was nothing between them—had never been anything between them—but friendship. But Bree was the closest thing he'd ever had to family and there was something between them he wouldn't put aside for anyone. She'd accepted that, and done  
her best to help him with his plans.

On impulse, he leaned down and kissed her. She laughed softly. "Too much of that, Alistair, and you might have to worry about more than a little mussing." He grinned and let his fingers trail over the still  
very slight curve of her belly.

A knock on the door interrupted them. "Your Majesties? You asked to be told when Warden Bree arrived. She'd just entered the palace gates."

"Thank you!" called Alistair, stepping back from his wife.

She patted his arm. "You go. I know how excited you are. I'll see all of you at dinner."

"Thanks." One last quick kiss and he was out the door and striding into the throne room. He hated the fact that he would meet Bree there, but it was only proper given their statuses.

He'd only been waiting for a few minutes when the steward announced the Hero of Ferelden.

"Alistair!"

Bree didn't walk in with any sort of decorum, simply dashing into the room. Alistair, waiting at the bottom of the dais, opened his arms and he was hugging the little energetic bundle of his sister Warden. This probably  
wasn't proper at all, but Alistair didn't care. Anyone who did could go hang.

"Alistair!" she cried, squeezing him tightly, her slim form belying the strength found in it. "I've missed you!"

"Missed you too. You look great." And she did. Her skin held a golden glow, the results of spending two years under the Antivan sun. Her long auburn hair was even longer than he remembered, and done up in an  
intricate series of braids, threaded with bright ribbons. The clothing she wore was still practical, but now it was made of fine silks and rich leathers.

"You are looking quite well yourself, dear Alistair." Alistair grinned over Bree's head at Zevran, who had entered silently behind her. "And we hear congratulations are in order."

"Yes. Thank you."

Bree hugged him again. "I'm so happy for you, Alistair! You're gonna made a great dad!"

"I hope so. But anyway, enough about me. I have a surprise for you."

"Oh? I thought you might be up to something. Your guards were waiting for us on the dock. I haven't even had a chance to see my family."

He nodded. "I know. Sorry about that. But this is really important and I don't think you'll mind. Come on."

"Alistair? Why are we going to the Alienage? It's not really an…appropriate place."

"You'll see. Trust me, Bree."

They were walking through the gates and Bree was uneasy beside him. She wasn't ashamed of her home or her family, not really, but she hated for others to see only the bad and not the good of Alienage life.

"I don't know, Alistair. This might not be such a…."

The words trailed off as they came into full view of the Alienage, and Alistair heard even Zevran draw in a quick breath at the sight that greeted them.

Bree's eyes were huge as she looked at the changes wrought during the two years she'd been gone. New homes of solid construction replaced the rambling shacks and falling down homes that had been there previously, and scaffolding for more buildings rose into the air. The bridge had been completely repaired and new paving stones had been laid down on the main street.

The sound of hammers and saws could be heard, even over the tumult of voices that rose as the elves realized who had entered the Alienage. It even smelled better. The waterways and sewers had been repaired and were in  
complete working order for perhaps the first time in centuries. Everything smelled like fresh air and sawdust.

Then Bree's father, Cyrion, was there, hugging his little girl and pulling her along to show her all of the changes. For once, Bree seemed struck dumb by what she saw. Her people clustered around her, everyone talking  
and laughing all at once, overjoyed to have the best of them back amongst them.

"Valendrien!" That shook Bree from her silence and Alistair hung back to let her have her reunion with everyone without his presence.

It was perhaps an hour later when she found him sitting on the low wall of the bridge. She dropped down to sit beside him and her eyes and nose were suspiciously red.

"You did all this."

"I did."

"Valendrien says you got back as many elves as you could from Tevinter."

"I couldn't find them all, Bree. I'm sorry. I've still got people looking though."

"This is…Alistair, I…. Thank you!" She threw her arms around him and he hugged her back. "Why?"

Startled, he looked down at her in surprise. "Do you even need to ask? You told me about what life was like here, and then I saw it from myself. During the Blight, I couldn't do anything about it, but after I became  
king, well, I could. So I did.

"It's not done yet, and it's not perfect. I got the materials, and some master carpenters and masons, but your people still had to do all of the work. And I couldn't pay them for it. I'm sorry. I wish I could do more."

"Oh, Alistair." She wiped her eyes. "Maker, you don't even know how much you've done. My people—my family—have homes now. Real homes that don't leak when it rains or let in every draft in the winter. And it might be crowded, but we're not packed in like rats. Everyone has food, I've never seen them healthier, and for the first time it seems like we don't have to worry about sickness or plague sweeping through and taking the weakest among us.

"And you did this for me."

Alistair frowned slightly. "No, I didn't do this for you. You would have been all right no matter what. I did this for them[/i] because they're my subjects, too, and deserve to be treated just like everyone else.

"But I did do this because of you, Bree. You showed me things that I could change and that I could fix. Thank you. You were always there for me when I needed you, and I never did enough to repay that during the  
Blight. I wanted to show you that your faith in me wasn't misplaced, that I could be the kind of king you thought I could be."

"You're an _awesome_ king, Alistair," she laughed. "Come on!" She stood and tugged him to his feet.

As Alistair followed the smiling, laughing Warden, he thought that this was the best part of being king—being able to make those he loved happy.


	15. WP 8: Mother

Weekly prompt 8: Mother

* * *

**Mother**

Hand on the door handle, ready to walk out of the room and back into his normal life—or what passed for normal for him—and forget this night had ever happened, Alistair paused and turned to look back at the woman redressing behind him.

"Morrigan?"

Her sigh was not quite as condescending or annoyed as it usually was, but her tone was still slightly irritated. "Yes, Alistair? Have you forgotten something?"

"No, I—" He scratched the back of his head, trying to figure out what he wanted to say. "This child…."

Instantly, she stiffened slightly. "I told you. The child is mine and I will be leaving after the battle. You were told that it will have nothing to do with you. It is a bit too late for second thoughts."

Alistair shook his head. "No. No, I understand. I just…you'll be a good mother, right?"

Morrigan went still. There was a long silence and Alistair saw that she was slightly off-balance—one of the few times her composure ever slipped, especially in front of him.

"The child will be well cared for," she said brusquely. "And as I have said, it is no concern of yours."

"It is!" he insisted. "I know I won't have anything to do with raising it, but it's still _my child_. I want to know that you'll care for it, and I don't just mean food or shelter. I want…I want more for him or her than I had."

He waited for the mockery, the insults that usually followed whenever he admitted something she perceived as weakness. But she said nothing, merely looked at him with an inscrutable expression. Finally, she took a deep breath.

"The child will be cared for, Alistair," she said quietly. "I will not smother it in affection or coddle it, for indeed that would weaken the both of us. But I will make sure it is protected, that it is not left abandoned to random chance. More than that, I cannot promise."

Alistair nodded. That would have to be enough. "Thank you," he said simply. Slipping out the door, he walked down the hall, leaving the woman who was the mother of his child behind him and heading toward the woman that he wished could be.


	16. WP 9: Jealousy

Weekly prompt 9: Jealousy

* * *

**Jealousy**

Alistair's hand slipped as he scrubbed at the large pot with a stiff-bristled brush, and barked his knuckles on the cold iron. He hissed in pain and dropped the brush, shaking his hand and sucking on the small cuts. After taking a moment to rinse his hand off in some clean water, he picked up the brush and resumed scrubbing pots. He'd been here for hours and it was likely he'd be here well past curfew.

Damn him and his big mouth. If only he'd managed to keep his lips shut when Ser Larsen had been lecturing, he wouldn't be in this mess. But, oh, no, not Alistair! Alistair had to go and open his big fat mouth and give some smart ass answer when Ser Larsen had asked what he thought was a particularly stupid question.

The joke had earned him a few chuckles and grins from his fellow initiates, but it'd also earned him an evening of scrubbing _all_ the chantry's pots and no dinner. His stomach rumbled at the thought and he cursed quietly under his breath.

"Alistair!"

Ser Larsen's voice snapped out behind him, and his shoulders dropped momentarily before he turned.

"Yes, Ser?" he asked, unable to hide the sullenness in his tone.

"You'll not profane this chantry with such vulgarity, not unless you want to spend tomorrow evening in here as well. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Ser," he said in resignation.

Ser Larsen frowned. "I do not understand you, Alistair. We've given you a home, food, clothing, an education, training and a vocation, yet you continually defy us at every turn. Your behavior has long since stopped being amusing—indeed if it ever was—and I don't know why you persist in conducting yourself this way."

Alistair said nothing and Ser Larsen's frown deepened. "Well? Have you nothing to say for youself?"

Alistair shrugged. "Sorry, Ser. I'll try to do better."

With a snort, Ser Larsen turned and beckoned to someone. Another initiate perhaps a couple of years older than Alistair came to his side, bowing quickly and with just the right amount of deference.

"Take Markum here. You'd do well to emulate him—both his behavior and his dedication to the Chantry." Standing slightly behind Ser Larsen, Markum smirked at him.

"I'll leave you to think on this, Alistair. The Maker surely has a plan for you here, and it would be better for all of us if you stopped fighting it. You will only lose in the end."

Markum hung back after Larsen left, leaning on the doorframe to the kitchens. "Aw, did the poor little bastard get himself in trouble for mouthing off again?"

"Sod off, Markum."

"Temper, temper, Alistair." He grinned maliciously. "You think you're better than us because some nobleman got you on one of his doxies, don't you?"

"I do not!" Alistair said hotly, ears burning.

"You do. Too bad it doesn't matter here. You're the worst excuse for a templar I've ever seen, and that includes Gort who's too stupid to even read." He pushed away from the wall. "Better get used to the view in here. The way you're going, you'll be ready for retirement in Val Royeaux before they ever make a real templar out of you."

_Maker, please!_ was Alistair's thought, even as he chucked the brush at Markum's retreating form. Naturally, he missed, the brush striking the wall by the door and clattering harmlessly to the floor. Clenching his fists, his knuckles smarting, he took several deep breaths and then went to reclaim the brush.

As he headed back to the pots, he looked out the small window to see Markum with a group of his friends. His stomach clenched and he felt sick. They were, as a whole, perfect initiates—dutiful, hardworking and pious. They were constantly praised by their instructors, given the best of everything, and most importantly, were perfectly at peace with their lot in life.

Alistair watched them. There was friendship and camaraderie in that group, acceptance and understanding. He'd never been part of something like that, would never be part of something like that, and he wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like if he could accept his fate.

Maybe…maybe he could stop acting out, dedicate himself to his studies and training, and someday—_someday_—he too might find himself both a part of a group like that and for once at peace with himself. It was so tempting. He ached to just be part of something, to be accepted and wanted because he was _Alistair_ and nothing else.

Through the open window, he heard his name and the coarse laughter that followed it, and the faint hope died in his breast. It was pointless. That would never happen for him. So he could either do what Ser Larsen and the other templars wanted him to do and give up, become one of them, or he could keep being himself. And as much as he hated being alone, hated always being the butt of jokes, hated this Makerforsaken kitchen and Makerforsaken pots, he wouldn't give up the only thing he really had. Himself.

As he'd predicted, he was the last one back into the barracks. And as tired as he was, sleep eluded him for most of the night before he finally fell into a restless and uneasy sleep. When he woke the next morning, his eyes were bleary and he felt like he hadn't managed any sleep at all.

He still managed to throw himself into weapons training. It was one of the few things he truly enjoyed here, and he refused to let his behavior keep him from it. Thankfully, his instructors hadn't caught onto depriving him of this as punishment for his behavior. But then again, a templar would didn't know how to fight wasn't very useful to the Chantry.

Just after lunch, there was a commotion, and all the initiates—templar, priestess and brother—were herded into the chantry.

"What's going on?" he whispered to a templar-in-training next to him as they knelt on the stone floor.

"You don't know?" the other boy asked, surprised. Alistair shook his head. "The king's dead, lost at sea. We're to offer prayers to guide his soul to the Maker."

Alistair stared and didn't move, frozen in the spot. Maric. He had one—and only one—memory of the golden king who was his father, and that was of Maric and Cailan visiting Redcliffe. Father and son together, while Alistair stood on the outside yet again.

A gauntlet clad hand cuffed him on the back of the head. "Show proper respect, boy!" Ser Larsen hissed. "For once in your life!"

Alistair bowed his head and prayed. But it certainly wasn't a prayer shared by anyone else in the chantry.

_Please, Maker, get me out of here! I'll do anything, just please don't leave me here!_


End file.
